


longing for the days of no surrender

by houselannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon - Book, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9123940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houselannister/pseuds/houselannister
Summary: Stories told of a titan in Braavos, welcoming the sailors when they entered the harbor. In the Westerlands, they needed no titans: they had House Lannister.





	1. 1. all the danger we came from

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no see! A few quick notes: I started writing this as a one-shot but eventually it became something more. Most of the story is already written, but I figured I should go on and publish, which will motivate me. As in, now that you're reading this, I am sure it will not remain incomplete, because I know myself and I would never leave something hanging. I'm not sure whether it will be 2 chapters or three, depends on the length of what's to come. My best guess, seeing how things are going, is three, because I have a lot already written, and having laid down the structure of the whole story I know it's gonna be a little longer than I thought it would be. Shortly: 75% of this is already written, tune in in the next days to read the rest.  
> Now that the technicalities are out of the way, some personal gushing. This is the first story I have written in a while, so bear with me: my style has changed, but the feelings are all there. Last but not least, as per usual, you need to thank Ashley (lannistering) if you are reading something somewhat coherent: a writer is nothing without someone to bounce their ideas on. But enough with the talking, I felt I had a debt towards the Lannister fandom and, as you know, a Lannister always pays her debts. Enjoy!

The night was cold, extremely cold, in Lannisport. The streets were empty, but for strong gusts of wind. Above a soft mantle of pure white were the lively reds of the small buildings, as spots of brightness, spots of life; the windows had been sealed shut with wooden planks, and the doors were now unhinged, like dead faces whose last emotion had been one of horror, with mouths open. The roofs were covered in white too, heavy pure snow. Winter had come.

 

Looking out the window Maera, the old hostess at the Yellow Sword Inn, began humming a slow ballad. No customers that night, just like the night before. Soon enough, there would be no food on the table for her children, but that was a feeble worry. Much more could happen before that came to fruition. Their fate could be far worse, and starvation might become a viable alternative. Seven's sake, she never could have thought the day would come. She had hoped it wouldn't. Yet the tales had reached the Westerlands, reliable and dreadful and unavoidable.

 

A hooded stranger walked in; she could barely make out the face, all shrouded as it was. Maera stepped away from the window and stared on for a long time without saying a word. In fact, she thought she must have looked quite confused, surprised even. When was the last time someone had stepped into her inn, looking for food, or water, or rest? The customer was mostly dressed in rags. Maera decided it must be a traveler, one of the many people seeking refuge from the war. One of those who didn't know the Westerlands were the last place they wanted to be.

 

The stranger took a seat at a table by the door. He kept the hood over his head, careful to hide his face, insistently. Maera dwelt on the spot, uncertain on what to do. She had not forgotten her manners, but she was rusty. And to make things worse, a strange aura surrounded the customer: like some sort of nervous chaos had walked in with him. Maera knew how to recognize these things; her grandmother was an enchantress. It was like iced water had started dribbling down her back.

 

“What do you want?” Maera asked, defensively. Her mother had taught her the best way to defend oneself was to be meek, keep one’s head down. But Maera was a Westerlander, she knew no such thing; if she had to die, she had to die fighting with what weapon she had – her tongue.

 

The stranger pulled the robe tight around him. “Arbor gold.”

 

“Arbor gold? You _must_ be from a faraway land.” Maera walked over to the counter, never averting her eyes from the guest. A bitter smile crossed her once pretty features. “There hasn't been any Arbor gold for weeks. Trading is dangerous.”

 

“Ale, then. And be quick about it, I have business to attend to.”

 

Maera halted and looked at the stranger. “You don't look like someone who would have any business to attend to.”

 

“No ale, then?”

 

Something about his polished way of talking unsettled her; everything about him seemed out of place. His voice, though hoarse, betrayed a charming accent, something she'd heard before in the Westerlands. Something she had heard, although not in Lannisport.

 

Maera brought him his cup, put it down on the table. She studied his hunched figure, waited for him to drink but he didn't. She walked away then, returning to her chores. Now and then she’d sneak a glance his way, but she didn't see much more than what could be mistaken as a pile of cloth.

 

“You don't want to be here, sir. The Westerlands are no longer safe.”

 

The man lifted his head. Maera heard the shuffling, he'd shifted in his seat and she knew he was looking at her from beneath his cover.

 

“They never were.”

 

_Why does he sound amused?_

 

“Most of the Westerlanders have fled. The Queen has sworn The Rock is next.”

 

“The Queen?” Some kind of skepticism pervaded the stranger's voice, like he was mocking the word itself.

 

“Aye, sir. The Queen. She has sworn to set The Rock aflame like she did the Red Keep.”

 

“And what about the Lannisters? Who stands to defend the seat?”

 

“Haven't you heard, sir? Ser Jaime was murdered in the Riverlands, and the Imp now serves another. Some say they saw him riding one of those three beasts.”

 

The bizarre hooded figure snickered, a snicker that felt insulting to a proud Westerlander as she was. The Lannisters had been their Lords, after all: not merciful, not kind or generous, but their Lords nonetheless. Some part of her had always been in awe of them, and some part had always felt compelled to preserve the image of that rotten family. She could not say why, but she had always attributed it to her father’s loyalty. A loyalty that had made him perish in King’s Landing back in the days of the Sack. He had been a hero, her father, one of the unnamed one who had set out to the East in the trail of Tywin Lannister’s army, to save the Seven Kingdoms from mad Aerys and his progeny. The Lannister army had won, yes, but not without casualties within their own side.

 

“Why are there no guards patrolling the city?”

 

“There is nothing to patrol. Not anymore.” The stranger didn’t reply, like he was waiting for her to continue. It was as if he knew there was something missing from her account. So she continued. “What little is left of the Lannister army is up at the Rock. A ceremony for Ser Jaime. They lay down his body in the sept, in the bowels of the mountain. He’s to be buried in the Hall of Heroes at sundown.”

 

“But he was no hero.”

 

“ _She_ insisted.”

 

The stranger stood up. Maera heard the sound of coins being dropped on the wooden table. By the sound alone, she knew he’d left much more than the ale was worth. And by the looks of it, he hadn’t drunk much at all. She could see now he was limping; she caught a glimpse of his face and gasped.

 

_A ghost,_ she thought.

 

But the guest was gone before she had the time to bow.

 

* * *

 

Beneath the pale skin of her wrists, she could make out her own veins. And if she ran her fingers along them, she could feel the blood pumping faintly. She attempted to trace it all the way up. She had lost a lot of blood without spilling any of her own, she thought, as the handmaiden fastened the corset behind her, pulling at the strings. She was so thin now, thin enough that she could see her own bones sticking out of her pelvis. Bare, a shadow of her former figure.

 

The young girl helped her put on the black gown with trembling fingers. Cersei took her hand, stilled it, and told her to leave. She had no use for fumbling idiots, and there was no strength in her to tell her straight.

 

She finished dressing on her own, fussing with the seams of the gown because it was too large on her now, especially on her shoulders. It was not a perfect fit like the one she’d worn after Joffrey’s death, nor the one she had made for Myrcella’s funeral. It was instead the same one she’d worn as they lay Tommen to rest. That made her uneasy, thinking about Tommen, so she chased the memory away.

 

Outside her chambers awaited six men, loyal Lannister guards who had refused to flee after the letter from Dragonstone had reached the Rock.

 

“Your Royal Highness,” said Addam Marbrand upon seeing her coming out of the room. Cersei nodded; in the castle people still addressed her like a Queen. And Ser Addam had been in charge of her own personal escort ever since the return to Casterly Rock. Whenever she looked at him, she couldn’t help be reminded of her own brother. Addam and Jaime were nothing alike, physically nor in attitude. But the recollection of her brother’s sparring with the man was enough to help her feel less alone in those halls filled with echoes of their youth.

 

The only time she’d been in the castle without Jaime was when he’d been sent off to squire, and that had been dreadful. It was just as awful now.

 

As she walked those corridors with the six men surrounding her, all armed and ready for a fight that wasn’t coming, she did not allow herself a moment of mourning. Cersei refused to think of her brother, whose memory she was about to bury forever deep in the stomach of the mountain that had mothered them both. She kept a steely exterior, so no one would see the cracks. With her head held high, she descended into the deepest soul of the Rock. The polished marbles gave way to unruly stone, painted by the flickering lights of the torches, and their shadows as they passed made it all the more anguishing. They halted before a great gate, tall and golden, each panel representing a moment of Lannister mythology: from Lann the Clever stealing from the Sun to Tywin Lannister entering King’s Landing on his regal horse, on his way to right the wrongs of a madman. History, _her_ history, _their_ history.

 

She saw the altar as soon as the gate was opened before them. It stood in the middle of the room, taller than the one in the Great Sept of Baelor where she’d mourned her firstborn and her only daughter. Unlike Joffrey and Myrcella, Jaime’s body had been covered by a golden drape, but one could make out the shape underneath it. To top it all, above the drape was a sword with red rubies encrusted in its pommel, resting in a golden sheath. Cersei hesitated under the tall gate, looked up at the painted dome above, a velvety red with golden stars. A Lannister sky. On the other side of the sept was another door, the door that led to the Hall of Heroes.

 

“Are you well enough, Your Majesty?”

 

Qyburn had appeared out of nowhere; he had a fondness for that.

 

“Leave us,” Cersei said, and the guards all returned to their posts around the altar, with their hands on the pommels of their swords. Cersei looked at the strange circle of worshipping and realized Jaime would hate that. As soon as they were out of ear’s reach, she turned to the Maester stripped of his chain. “How did it go?”

 

“Well enough,” he murmured. “As long as no one...” he trailed off and turned his cake to the altar.

 

“Thank you.”

 

A man drew close, dragging his tired, old feet. In fact, it was a miracle he was still standing. Cersei remembered him from his youthful recollections, and he’d been old enough back then already. Maester Creylen bowed as far as he could for an old man, but it was enough; people hardly bowed to her anymore.

 

“Is anyone else coming?” Creylen asked.

 

Cersei looked at the altar.

 

“There is only me.”

 

“Ah,” Creylen nodded. “I see. Well, the Gods await this just boy.”

 

Cersei smiled. Jaime would have laughed at that. There was nothing just about him, never had been; and mostly, he was no longer a boy. Though by the way the old Maester looked at her even now, one might argue he still had an image of her as a small child in his mind, playing hide and seek with that unruly boy the Gods were now so anxious to meet.

 

The ceremonies in the Westerlands were less pompous than the ones in Crownlands. She remembered Joffrey’s funeral had lasted seven hours, and Myrcella’s five. Tommen’s... no, she would not think about Tommen now.

 

After a short prayer, the Maester began dangling an incense burner over the drape and the smell filled the room. Cersei couldn’t stand it; her eyes began stinging. Yes, it had to be the incense. The Maester began invoking the ancestors to bless the body of the dead, so that they would accompany him along his journey to meet the Gods, that they might grant for his entrance into the Hall of Heroes. The door to the Hall was opened by two guards, and beyond one could only see never ending darkness. The thought of locking Jaime into that dark, damp room made her sick to her stomach.

 

The ceremony was over. The body was bound to stay one night into the sept, to be carried into the Hall of Heroes the morning after. The soul would be purged by the contact with the ancestors, granting him a clean slate. One by one, the guards began leaving the room; five of them returned to Cersei’s side to escort her back to her chambers. Addam Marbrand remained by Jaime’s side.

 

“Your Majesty, I’d like to stand vigil,” said the man unexpectedly. Cersei was taken aback, surprised by the sentiment. It was not in hers or Qyburn’s plan that anyone should stay with the body.

 

Cersei turned to Qyburn, who nodded. “It is of paramount importance that you do not touch the body, nor lift the drape,” said the man, cautious. “It might hinder the soul’s journey to the afterlife.”

 

Addam looked at the other man sternly. “I know the tradition, Maester.” He spat the word. “I am a Westerlander.” A veiled accusation that he was not.

 

“Very well, Ser Addam,” agreed Cersei. “I would stay, but I’m a woman; I am not permitted,” she said with a hint of venom in her voice. If anyone should stay with him one last night, it should be her. It seemed a retortion for all the nights they’d stolen; the Gods had been watching, and they were punishing her with one last jape.

 

Cruel.

 

Before she left she walked up to the altar one last time, lifted the hem of her gown to go up the two steps that made her look down at the hidden shape of her lover. “There’s no Heavens awaiting us,” she whispered. “But I swear by the Warrior, now he has his match.”

 

She gathered her gown once again and turned her back on the altar, walking away in great haste, followed by her own small army of the foolish. Qyburn closed the gate of the sept, with one last, long glance in Ser Addam Marbrand’s direction.

 

* * *

 

 

The torches cast a feeble light over the drape. The cloth was finely cut, a heavy golden velvet enriched by the sigil of House Lannister, a great lion whose eyes seemed alive whenever the breeze would make the lights on the walls dance. The only sound was the crackling flames, and some sort of howling as the winds outside found their ways into the cracks of the mountain.

 

_Wolves,_ thought Addam Marbrand. His knees began to ache from the long hours standing; his knees were no longer those of a child. What’s most, Jaime had always been much more of a runner than him; in their sparring, the reason Jaime kept beating him was he was fast on his feet, whereas Addam took a longer time reflecting on the next move. That had been why Jaime had gone on to become one of the best swordsmen in all of Westeros; and that was also why he’d found his greatest misfortune. He followed his instincts; he followed his heart. It had been his ruination; Addam grieved that now.

 

Even as children, Jaime had never been great at _thinking_. He often skipped his lessons with the maesters, preferring a good ride along the beach to history and mathematics. He was careless in that fashion only heirs of great houses can be. Jaime was to be Lord of Casterly Rock one day, and he wouldn’t have to do much but sit around and wait, and maybe cover himself in glory with a few battles well-fought as he waited. He was the apple of Tywin’s eye.

 

Addam adored him. Even though the Marbrands were a respectable family, much above many others in status, it was still not quite as great as House Lannister. Watching the golden haired boy who would one day become Warden of the West often left him in awe. What an honor, whenever he called him “my friend” with that voice too deep for a boy his age. He was a knight at age seven already, only thing missing was a princess to save.

 

_Lies_ , Addam realized. He had his princess ever since the very beginning; he was born with her. Addam was his friend, but Cersei had always been something else. Part of him had known long before Stannis Baratheon’s letters had been sent across the Seven Kingdoms, spewing his treacherous venom. But Addam had immediately known the words in that letter were not a deception. He remembered once asking Jaime if he’d ever seen a naked girl. They were eleven. Jaime had grinned from ear to ear. “My friend,” he had said. “I have seen a naked girl. I have touched a naked girl. I have smelled a naked girl.” And by the way his eyes sparkled, one might have guessed the young boy had seen the Maiden herself. Jaime was in love the moment he was born.

 

Cersei’s marriage to Robert Baratheon had not been enough; her infatuation with Rhaegar Targaryen had not been enough. Her vile reproach at the stump he’d returned with instead of his right hand... well that had been a hard trial, but not even that had proven enough to made that love falter. Addam had seen it from afar, confined to his role as Commander of the City Watch. And then, something had happened. He did not know what, but one night Jaime Lannister had left his tent in the Riverlands and never came back. Cersei had been paraded naked before the whole city, and her knight had not come to save her. For the first time in her life, there was no Jaime to turn to, no Jaime to run to.

 

When Myrcella died in Dorne, killed by supporters of the Targaryen girl, Jaime had not been there to console her. When the news had come that a fleet had reached the shore of Dragonstone, Jaime had not been there to promise her his sword. When the Targaryen girl had circled above King’s Landing, offering everyone a chance to surrender, Jaime had not been there to slay the dragon. When the royal convoy had fled the capitol, Jaime had not been there to lead the party.

 

And then, what happened to little Tommen... He had no doubts, if Jaime had been there, perhaps the little King would be alive still. He faulted himself for that, every day. He had been leading the party, he should have seen the ambush. They lost many men that day, and only barely managed to get Cersei out of there. But only after she’d...

 

A noise behind him. He heard it and unsheathed his sword, launching himself at the hooded figure in the shadow. The blade hit the wall, as the other person moved out of the way quickly.

 

“You have no honor in attacking an unarmed man,” bellowed the hooded figure, dressed in rags.

 

“Don’t speak to me of honor, you intrude upon the sleep of the dead!” Addam leaped once more, and once more the stranger ducked out of the way and ran across the hall to put the altar in between him and his attacker. Addam didn’t falter, and chased him, slashing away, but every time the intruder was faster. The blade never touched him, never as much as scratched him.

 

“My friend, you’re slow. How did you ever make it in the Capital?”

 

Addam halted, breathing heavy. He lowered his fighting hand, and the sword rested hungry at his thigh. “What did you say?” It had been but one moment, but he had heard it. He couldn’t see under the hood but a glint caught his eye beneath the rags. Somewhere by the stranger’s side he’d seen a glimmer of gold, a flash.

 

_It can’t be._

 

“Perhaps the dead need not to sleep, but to be awakened instead.” The stranger’s voice resounded across the hall.

 

Addam could swear he heard a thumping in his chest, getting louder and louder by the moment. Addam walked up the two steps to the altar and grazed the hem of the drape with his fingers. He pulled the drape, and it fell to his feet. A sharp intake of breath; Addam took one step back.

 

The corpse on the altar was not Jaime Lannister’s. He had blonde hair already, and a square jaw, but any fool would see nothing about that dead man resembled Jaime Lannister in any way. Now he knew: the drape covering the body, Qyburn’s warnings. Someone had taken advantage of the rites of the Westerlands to set up a fake ceremony. But why? He couldn’t fathom why. Cersei, of all people... could it be she didn’t know? Addam Marbrand stared into the darkness underneath the intruder’s robe and waited.

 

The stranger lowered the hood.

 

And Jaime Lannister smirked.

 

* * *

 

Cersei lay awake, covered in furs, thinking about death. She wondered when Tyrion would show up. After all, the Frog had been right about many things, she saw no reason to doubt she had made one mistake. Her valonqar, her little brother. There had been times she’d wondered about Jaime, especially towards the end, before he left for the Riverlands. But that had been wrong of her, she never should have doubted him. Of course it would be Tyrion, she had known as much from the beginning. She imagined his tiny fingers clasping her throat and squeezing; she wondered if his fingers were long enough or if she would have to help him, and that made her laugh.

 

The fire was dying; she should send for a handmaiden to add some wood.

 

She turned on her side to look outside the window. The hair barely covered the length of her neck, short as it was. Not as short as it had been back then, though. The breeze on her naked scalp, that was a feeling she would not easily forget.

 

Outside snow was falling again. She liked to watch the snowflakes fall into the sea, see them dissolve into the vastitude of the water before her. Winter had come, and Eddard Stark was looking up from whichever Hell the Gods had chosen for him. _Are you waiting, you beast?_ But the snow had no power over the sea.

 

The door creaked open, and Cersei closed her eyes. “Revive the fire,” she ordered. Without a word, wood was thrown into the hearth. She could tell the flame were growing by the orange glow on the opposite wall. A warmth crept up on her, enveloping her sweetly. The door closed again. Cersei opened her eyes and saw the tall shadow cast onto the same wall. It was familiar.

 

“I knew you’d come and see me tonight,” she murmured. “Joffrey does too, most nights. And Myrcella. Will you stay until I fall asleep?” When had her voice become so frail and thin? When had she become this pathetic, needing ghosts to fall asleep because she was afraid of what was waiting for her in the land of dreams if they weren’t there?

 

“Cersei...”

 

She grew rigid. Her eyes wide, as she stared at the shadow on the wall, a giant standing over her with big, imposing shoulders she recognized. _God_ did she recognize him. Slowly, she sat up, never facing him. Her naked body shivered, so she pulled the fur around it, and even more slowly she stood up and turned around. She didn’t breathe for a lifetime, wondering if she had fallen asleep without noticing it and this was just another cruel dream. But he looked so real. His hair was longer, maybe even longer than hers, and there were old wounds on his face. He was dressed in nothing but grey, a sack, too large for him. On his feet he wore sandals like she’d seen peasants wear while she walked down Flea Bottom, naked and covered in shit during her walk of atonement.

 

“You look so real,” she murmured, drawing closer, around the bed and mere inches away from him. “You even smell like him.”

 

He had the face of a man who’d been to Hell and back, she could scarcely believe it. Lifting one hand, she ran her fingers down his cheek, to assert the physicality of such a lucid dream. _A hallucination_ , she thought, _like Joffrey and Myrcella before him._ Except his skin was warm, rough where the beard had grown longer. She had never been able to touch Joffrey or Myrcella, their ghosts had always kept their distance. But this ghost... it felt real.

 

“Cersei, I’m...” Jaime trailed off, and took her hands in his, the left one. He squeezed it, then took her by the shoulders and shook her lightly. How could it be a dream, when he was there, his presence was tangible, and it was just like it had been before. If she had not known he was dead, she might have believed him. “Cersei, I’m here. It’s me.”

 

Cersei remembered the man Qyburn had killed to take Jaime’s place on the altar, a body for a man whose body was lost in the Riverlands. Desperately she had wanted to bury him, say goodbye; and in the Westerlands only a body could be carried into the Hall of Heroes. Jaime deserved to be in that Hall, so they had to make sure at least the memory of him would rest in that place forever. She had never seen the body, because when the news had reached them, it said that he had been left hanging for the birds, and nothing had remained of him.

 

He felt so real. His eyes were the same eyes she’d looked into for all her life, and when he held her she felt the same warmth she remembered from her mother’s womb, when they were entwined, floating in the origin of their existence. Her head told her it could not be true, but her heart... oh, her heart sang a different tune.

 

“You died,” she whispered, detaching herself from his vicious grip. “That... that _monster_ killed you. They saw your body hanging from an oak branch. They saw your armor, your sword. They even brought it back. It was your sword, I recognized it. And they... they...” Cersei hurried to her bedside, shrouded in shadow. When she returned she was carrying Jaime’s golden hand. “They brought back your hand. How could it not have been you?”

 

Jaime lifted his right hand. Where the golden hand once was, now was nothing but the deformed stump it once concealed. “It wasn’t all that easy to ditch that one. The armor, they stripped me of it.”

 

She was swimming in a sea of confusion, trying to find some air, but it was difficult because all sense and logic escaped her. If Jaime was alive, perhaps not all hope was lost. Perhaps she did not need to just wait for her demise. Perhaps it mattered not the prophecy, the Targaryen girl, the dwarf’s insidious plan of revenge. And yet something wasn’t quite right, something she could not put her finger on.

 

Until she understood.

 

“It’s been two years,” she murmured. “Targaryen troops apprehended that wretched monster Catelyn Stark two years ago. When did you escape?”

 

Jaime swallowed, but never averted his eyes. She could read the tension in him, she felt he knew what would come next. And when he answered, instead of a fabricated lie, he chose the truth. “Two years ago.”

 

Cersei took another step back, increasing the distance between them. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure the man before her was the same man she’d said goodbye to. A glint in his eyes. It was guilt, she realized soon enough. “Two years. Where have you been?” Jaime didn’t answer at that, and rage began mounting somewhere deep inside her. A fire spreading to her limbs, but which had started in her betrayed heart. “Why didn’t you come back when you-”

 

“Lancel,” he interrupted her, unphased.

 

“What?”

 

“Lancel. You fucked Lancel.”

 

Cersei was shaken. Suddenly she felt the weight of her nudity underneath the fur, before Jaime’s eyes. Suddenly, she deemed him unworthy of that frailty, of seeing her in that state of primal innocence. Without a word she returned to her bedside and ditched the fur, picking up a robe to cover herself. It wasn’t modesty that spurred her, it was pride. As soon as she was decent, she walked past him in utter silence and opened the door enough to whisper something to the guard outside. Then she closed it again, and when she turned she felt renewed in her resolution.

 

“All this time, I thought my letter never reached you,” she told him. “but it did, didn’t it?”

 

Jaime looked at the fire, memories of his sister’s tear-stained papers curling in the flames until they were naught but cinders.

 

“You never came. It’s true what they told me, that you followed that giant of a woman into the woods? I didn’t want to believe it.” Her words were poison on her own tongue, she felt it stinging. “And she led you to your death. She sold you to that _monster_.” At the mention of the Tarth girl, Jaime opened his mouth, tried to speak words but Cersei would not _hear_ it. “And you condemned me.”

 

“The High Sparrow-”

 

“It wasn’t the High Sparrow. You did this.”

 

“How could I save you,” Jaime chimed in, lifting his stump, “with this?”

 

“You should have tried.”

 

He didn’t have a reply for that, so he stood there, looking into the fire. He was as beautiful as she remembered him, but there was a darkness to him now. A different kind of darkness than the one they’d met together. It was unsettling, how calm he was during all this. Perhaps he was a different man after all. Perhaps her Jaime had died, and this pathetic excuse for a knight had come back to taunt her in her mourning.

 

A _knock_ on the door.

 

Addam Marbrand walked into Cersei’s bedchambers, two more along with him. They didn’t say anything; one might mistake them for statues. Jaime lifted his eyes and smiled knowingly.

 

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” said Cersei, in a voice that was different from whatever sweetness used to be between them. It was the same voice she had used against Eddard Stark. “You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. As such, you failed to fulfill your duty of protecting the King and his mother, the Queen.” The men behind her exchanged hesitant glances, and Addam tightened his fist around the golden pommel of his sword. “It is treason.”

 

“Go ahead then,” Jaime said, with a hard look.

 

“Arrest him,” Cersei hissed.

 


	2. hold me like you never lost your patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you ever looked Death in the face?” Cersei asked. Her voice sounded threatening.
> 
> Yes, it had your face.
> 
> “No.”

Deep inside the mountain, was a place no one ever went to. Well, no one except the prisoners, but they didn’t choose to go there. Any sane person would know to stay away from the dark cells of Casterly Rock. It stank terribly, more that the black cells in the Red Keep. The salt water creeped through the cracks of the rock for days, spreading the smells across the undergrounds. Once there may have been other odors, consequence of the prisoners’ bodily functions, but the cells were all empty now. Perhaps he should be grateful for that, at least: he had to smell his own piss alone.

Jaime could not say he had expected that. Yes, he had known she would be angry as soon as she had found out the truth, he had been prepared for that: he was good at dodging her curveballs, good at avoiding her accuses. Not this time, though. He was guilty, and she was just as guilty as him. But imprisonment? Jaime had not foreseen that. He had known what he wanted to say to her, all of the things he could throw in her face, all of her mistakes, all that had driven him into the deep of the forest rather than back to the Capital. Now that was all useless, because it had been two days and no one had come to see him. How long would she keep him down there?

He had not thought of mentioning Lancel so soon, but it had slipped through his lips unconsciously. She had not even bothered denying it, which was all the confirmation he needed. There had been a lot of heartbreak, in between them, and he wasn’t sure anything could fix that.

A door creaked open somewhere.

Jaime remained in his corner, away from the light. The fight had long since left his body, his mind and his soul. There was nothing in him: a sense of doom had seized a long time ago, perhaps on the same day he’d felt the rope tight around his neck. He’d looked Death in the face, and Death had _her_ eyes. He had closed his own, and the last thing he’d thought about had been her, her name had escaped his lips like a prayer or a farewell. That day, for some reason he had not died: he lied to himself, told himself she had saved him, but he knew she’d be his ultimate demise. It just wasn’t the day, yet.

The clanking of heavy boots on the pavement was just barely outside his cell. In fact, soon enough he saw the man halt by the bars of his cell. His armor was heavy, and his sword dangled lifeless at his side.

“Need a hand?” Jaime asked.

Addam laughed. It was a beautiful sound to Jaime’s ears: when was the last time he had heard someone laugh? He had forgotten what that sounded like, how it could warm up your insides and envelop you. He smiled, as well. Addam pulled up a wooden stool, and sat down, propping the sword to the stone wall. He unclasped his cape and folded it, as well, trying to get rid of some of the formalities.

“My sister doesn’t know you’re here,” Jaime stated.

“I wouldn’t be here if she did,” was the swift response. “Would you care to explain why you’re here?”

“You dragged me down here, I seem to recall— ”

“Not here, I mean _here._ Why did you come back?” Addam paused, giving him time to answer. But Jaime lowered his head instead. “Everyone thought you were dead. You could run, start a new life somewhere, find yourself a myrish woman, live out the rest of your day away from this wretched continent. But here you are, a prisoner once more. Aren’t you getting tired?”

Jaime squinted. He did not remember Addam as the vitriolic sort of man. Yet there he was, dripping mockery at every word. As if Cersei’s hatred was not enough, what had he done to deserve Addam’s scolding too? “Have I done something to displease you, Marbrand? Remind me, I’m starting to lose count.”

Addam didn’t answer, just as Jaime had not answered his question. They were getting good at this, all of them, avoiding subjects that were ill fitted. Jaime stood up, at last, walking into the feeble light of the torches. He leaned against the bars, looking down on Addam with a wry smile. His hair was darker than he remembered: once, a long time ago, he had been truly _kissed by fire_. That hair had been a problem for him, because people always regarded him with a certain amount of suspicion. Legend had it people who were kissed by fire had a certain wildness to them: never had that been less true than it was for Addam Marbrand. Jaime remembered very well the young boy who was so in awe of him that he did everything Jaime asked of him. He was not a rebel; he was extremely loyal. And maybe, Jaime reasoned now, that was the point.

“Have you fallen for it? For her?”

Addam stood up almost violently at the implication. “You accuse me of treason.”

“I accuse you of being human.”

Cersei had a power over man, he knew, that she was very well aware of. It was easy to be enamored with her, her beauty blinded the eyes of the beholder and shrouded all the rest. When she had first been introduced to the people of King’s Landing, it had been delirious. The peasants had thrown roses at her feet, cheered her when Robert presented her as his Queen on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. But then, it was only after one made it past the beauty that his sister’s core became obvious and terrifying. That was usually when people realized they were in love with a monster. He had loved that monster for all his life. He still loved that monster.

“Tell me about King’s Landing,” Jaime said, changing the subject of their conversation.

Addam went silent for a few seconds, before starting the account. “It was after the trial. The Mountain won easily, and the High Sparrow met a swift end. Princess Myrcella’s body had just been brought back from Dorne; she’d been slaughtered by Targaryen supporters. We had just buried her when the messenger asked for an audience; he came bearing ill news, that a fleet had reached the shore of Dragonstone, and that the Targaryen girl had an army much bigger than ours at her back. Dothrakis, Unsullied, people from all over the Seven Kingdoms had defected and joined her ranks.”

“My brother, too.”

“Yes.”

“And dragons. She had dragons.” For someone who should be listening, Jaime sure knew a lot of things.

“She had dragons. We advised the Queen it was time to leave the Red Keep and retreat to Casterly Rock, reassemble the Lannister army, try and make peace with Dorne and, possibly, the North, unite our forces to avoid a new mad woman on the throne.” Addam paused again, like he was reliving those instants in the back of his mind, and it was painful. “She wouldn’t hear it. She sent all her best men to Dragonstone. No one came back.”

“Not even the Mountain?”

“Not even the Mountain.”

He had heard tales, during his peregrination across the Seven Kingdoms in the past two years, of the huge man that had fought for the Queen in the most majestic trial by combat the Capital had ever seen. Many had speculated about the nature of that knight, and even more had suggested he was no normal man at all. Now, knowing even such a prodigious beast had perished must have been enough to scare anyone.

“But even after that, the Queen still wouldn’t leave. King Tommen was scared, but she refused to leave the Red Keep and just give up the throne. That was when the sky went dark.” Jaime tilted his head at the curious choice of words. “It was the most terrifying thing I have ever seen, and I’ve lived a full life. Its wings were big enough that they could envelop the whole red Keep if only she’d given the command. Its eyes were red, and they looked into the city’s soul and saw the rotten in it. It seemed flames would come out of his mouth at any moment.”

Jaime could almost picture it: the Targaryen girl, perched on her dragon, shouting at the top of her lungs. And Cersei, staring out the window, unmoving. What a sight that must have been for her: she had dreamt Rhaegar would take her away on a dragon someday. Little did she know, one day his little sister would return and repay all old debts.

“She gave the people of King’s Landing one day to pick a side; the next day she would burn the city, and everyone who remained.”

“I bet Cersei didn’t like that.”

“We had to slip milk of the poppy in her wine.” Jaime’s face must have been quite something, because Addam tried to justify their action immediately. “We are vowed to protect the King. And the King had to leave the city.”

“What happened to him?”

Addam picked up his sworn and fastened it at his waist. The clasped the cape around his shoulders. Jaime watched him: story time was over, for now, apparently. There was something about what had happened to Tommen that had darkened his friend’s expression. Jaime wondered if some things were better left unsaid: he had not suffered for Joffrey, he had felt something close to pain for Myrcella. Tommen, however, was a sweet boy… perhaps, it was best he did not know. He did not want to feel sorry for him: something told him that somewhere, mixed in that cauldron, he’d find it was his fault, and he had enough blame to last him to the afterlife.

“Hide the skins, when you’re done,” Addam said, offering him some fresh fruit hidden in a cloth. “She doesn’t want you fed.”

 

 

*

 

Casterly Rock was unlike any other castle in the Seven Kingdoms; many agreed it was bigger than the Red Keep. It owed its grandiosity to the mountain that hosted him: the whole of the mountain had been reconstructed from the inside out to host the halls of the seat of House Lannister. It looked onto the sea, earning the resident Head of the House the very sense of the title _warden of the West_. Stories told of a titan in Braavos, welcoming the sailors when they entered the harbor. In the Westerlands, they needed no titans: they had House Lannister.

Once, Casterly Rock had been alive. The size of the castle required an incredible number of servants, and they all lived in the lowest levels of the Rock, the ones where the light never reached. The Lannister family lived in the upper levels, instead, where the sea pervaded every corner of the halls, warming up the marble. Everything, up there was deep red and golden and precious; the walls were adorned with drapes and paintings. Old Maester Creylen had always lived within the castle, as had many of the high-ranking officials of the Lannister army with their families. Even though they lived in the same place, the Rock was big enough that the guests would never really have any contact with the family. However, one only needed getting out of Lann the Clever’s revered halls to find all sorts of people, all sorts of lives: guards exercising with their sword in the courtyard, the boy preparing the horses nearby the stables, the kitchen wenches feeding the leftovers to the doctor’s hounds, the gardener tending to the flowers.

Cersei looked down the long table in the dining hall. There were up to twenty chairs, empty. Before her, the roasted pheasant one of the kitchen boys had fetched in the morning, and potatoes picked that same afternoon. Reflecting on how much life once populated the Rock made it even more bitter to think on how little there was those days. Few people had remained, after the news of the Targaryen girl had spread across Westeros like a plague. Even less now, after the _letter._ She took a bite of the pheasant and it tasted bittersweet. Behind her, she felt the presence of the guards, watching her eat in silence. Once, that room had been full. When she was a child, she remembered her mother and father talking about the hunt in the evening, or her brother who just wouldn’t eat his beets. _Just like Tommen_. And Uncle Kevan too, and Aunt Genna, and other Lannisters whose name Cersei could not even remember. She remembered the Lannisters of Lannisport, who came round now and again upon his father’s invitation because, as he always said, it was paramount to know your own. It all had begun to change after their mother’s death: slowly, her father had retreated, shutting himself inside, and the halls were emptier. But one could still go outside and get a taste of the outer world, so different from what it was between those walls.

So few had remained loyal.

“Your majesty,” a voice behind her.

Cersei didn’t bother lifting her head.

“Your majesty,” insisted the voice. “A royal messenger.”

“I don’t remember sending any message.”

The silence at her words was dense. Cersei put down the fork and turned around. In the fraction of a second she felt the urge to grab the fork again and lunge forward. She recognized the man standing before her, even though his white hair was longer and he wore a Targaryen sigil on his breastplate instead of the symbol of the Kingsguard; the lines on his face were more pronounced, too, but he was all the man she remembered.

“How many queen is that, ser Barristan?” asked Cersei, with a stern face. “Three, is it? Or four?”

“Only as many as it took to find the rightful one.”

The last time she’d seen him, he was standing just below the Iron Throne, stripped of his role and his dignity. Had that driven him to the usurper from Essos? Was this yet another mistake meant to haunt her forever? Back then, she’d done it because it made sense Jaime should take his place. That, and ser Barristan was too close to Eddard Stark. Oh, but that felt like a whole other lifetime. Those problems seemed so trivial now: her children were all dead, and she should have known there was no point in trying to protect them. Maggy the Frog had told her many years before.

“Ser Barristan the Bold,” Cersei murmured. “You are bold, indeed. I see you’re alone, whereas my men are armed. But this is a stage we’ve already been on.”

“It doesn’t matter if I live or die, Lady Lannister,” Barristan replied, defiant. “I come to you with a Queen’s mercy. There’s an army at your doorstep. The carnage can be avoided, if you bend the knee and accept the Queen’s justice.”

“Where’s the mercy in that?”

“There is, for those who are innocent. Your people.”

As opposite to Cersei who was, after all, guilty. They had already sentenced her. That was the sort of justice he came offering. The same kind of justice she had bestowed upon her kingdom.

“No one is innocent, ser Barristan, you should know that.”

Barristan Selmy looked her long and hard, then turned without a word. He was on his way to the door when Cersei took a step forward: seeing that, the guards stepped in the knight’s way.

“Who leads the army?”

Barristan turned around for a brief moment, just enough to reply coolly: “Your brother, Lady Lannister. Ser Tyrion.” Then the man pushed past the guards, who let him through in absence of their Lady’s commands.

Addam Marbrand was swift at Cersei’s side. “Shall we let him go, your Majesty?”

Cersei took a deep breath.

 

 

*

 

Addam had only seen snow once in his life. He was twelve years old, and he remembered being knee-deep in white flakes. It had been one of those afternoons he’d remember for the rest of his life, for the sole fact the courtyard of Casterly Rock had never quite been as joyous as it had been that one time. They were kids, all of them. A few years had passed since Lady Joanna’s passing, so Tyrion had already become Jaime’s shadow – whenever Tywin wasn’t looking. The three of them had been playing with snow, when Cersei had joined them after her daily lesson with their septa. Jaime and Cersei’s subjects of study had slowly taken different paths: Jaime was allowed endless hours practicing with his sword, while Cersei was often locked up in her chambers learning how to properly behave at court. It wasn’t an easy task, that much he’d heard from his father. The girl was renowned for being too free-willed, and could scarcely bear being taught what to do. In fact, he remembered her running in the snow like no lady of her stature should; Jaime had slipped fresh snow down her back, inside her gown. Sometimes, Addam felt out of place, caught in between the two of them: he was part of a private game, and he didn’t really know the rules.

Lifting his gaze, he saw old Barristan Selmy’s head, dangling lifeless from the stone. It had been a clean job: they had knocked him down, stripped him of his armor and thrust a spear through his chest. Addam had asked the butcher to cut the head off: after all, Barristan Selmy had been a friend, once, and even though he was a traitor Addam couldn’t bear to look into those empty eyes and spill the old man’s blood.

The horses neighed, as the party came back. Addam waited for them, watched as the four horses galloped with difficulty across the white field before him. It was freezing, not even the furs they’d donned could keep the ice from reaching their very bones. The men’s faces were ashen, and Addam knew they didn’t bear good news.

“Lord Commander,” said one of them. “they’ll be in Lannisport within the day.”

That meant they’d be at the castle during the night. They didn’t have much time to act, even if the Queen ordered a counterattack. So far, nothing had been done to secure the perimeter of the city, nor the borders of the castle. Sure, the Lion’s Mouth was the only way up to the castle, but what could little more than one hundred man do against an army?

“Another thing, Lord Commander,” added the man. “The Imp… He marches under Lannister flags.”

Addam nodded, spurred his bay up the many steps that lead up to the castle from the Lion’s Mouth. He was going fast, there was no time to lose. If they were to defend themselves, it was time to know: a man ought to know to prepare for death, rather than be caught off guard. He knew the men he commanded well: they would die, trying to protect the castle. _Not the Queen_ , he reasoned. Not one man, among them, had any love for her; it was the family name they were protecting, and the Queen was the last Lannister after the Imps defection. Except now the Imp was calling himself a Lannister, and Addam could fathom his men’s reaction to that.

“I need to speak to the Queen,” he said, running across the hall and halting before Cersei’s bedchambers.

“The Queen is not— ” the handmaiden tried, but Addam pushed past her, a move that could very well lose him his position within the Lannister guards. But he didn’t care, soon enough there will not be a Lannister army.

The Queen was sitting by the small table, and lazily lifted her head upon his entrance. He was a mosquito, and she was barely disturbed by his presence. _Once she would have screamed_ , Addam thought. There was no time to dwell on the past, the present was a vivid threat to them all.

“Your Grace, enemy forces are marching towards us.”

Whatever he had expected, it was not what Cersei did. She lowered her gaze on the glass of wine she was holding in her lap, grazed the border with her thumb and smiled. Addam wanted to press her, ask for a command that would make him feel less of a useless puppet. _Ask me to fight_ , he begged in his own head. Jaime would have understood that: a knight’s urge to die with his own sword in hand, for a cause he believed in.

“I’d like to see my brother,” murmured the Queen.

“Your Grace, this is not the time—” Addam tried, but Cersei looked up and it was immediately clear that was the only order he was going to receive that morning.

 

*

 

It had been nearly four days, now. The guards were compassionate enough to bring him food now and then. It was impossible Cersei didn’t know: she had begun to wonder whether she was turning a blind eye to the habit, and letting them do it anyway. Nothing managed to get past her sister, especially someone who actively defied her orders. That was a good sign. It meant she didn’t want him dead. It reminded him of when they were children and she’d go days without speaking to him just because he’d refused to switch clothes for once. This was a punishment that befitted their new roles. As a child, all she could do was offer him the cold shoulder; now she could have him thrown in a cell without as much as blinking.

A confirmation of his ruminations was the fact he was now being escorted to the tallest tower of the Rock, because the Queen had asked to see him. Addam was not by his side now, and the three men accompanying him were no prone to any sort of banter. They walked up the steep stairs, and reached the top of the tower. Outside the door, he was hit by the cold winter breeze. A guard offered him a fur, which he took eagerly. The sky was white, and menaced snow again.

Cersei stood near the ledge, overlooking the sea. Her hair was short now, it no longer billowed in the wind. But her gown did: she was still wearing black. Over the gown she wore an emerald cloak, with mink fur around her neck. When she heard their arrival, she turned around and dismissed the guards.

Jaime took a long look at her. He did not remember her eyes ever being so green, not after life had begun taking its toll. Perhaps it was the sea opening up behind her, or the green silk around her. He saw the red ruby shining between her breasts: her mother’s necklace. She had never worn it. The wind howled between them as they stood silent at the top of their kingdom, the one they were entitled to. Briefly, when he cast a glance around, he couldn’t help but wonder whether that might have been enough for them. The Westerlands would never have hurt them the way the rest of the Seven Kingdoms had.

“Have you ever looked Death in the face?” Cersei asked. Her voice sounded threatening.

_Yes, it had your face._

“No.”

“I have,” Cersei continued, turning once more to the sea. “It has big, black eyes, and breathes fire through its nose.”

Jaime covered the distance between them and stood by the ledge with her, looking down into the water; huge waves crashed against the side of the mountain, white foam splashing against the rocks like a rabid dog was barking at them. Somewhere in the distance, behind the hills, beyond Lannisport in the distance, tall columns of smoke rose from the grounds. Cersei noticed his gaze was resting on those.

"It seems our brother has come for me.”

Jaime felt a twitch in his chest; he wanted to grab her, hold her, kiss her, _love her like before_. And at the same time he wanted to seize her by the collar of her gown and push her backwards, into the sea, and feed her to the seven Hells. But as he looked at her now he could not help but see Joanna reflected in her eyes.

He grabbed her wrist and forced her to look at him. “Ask me,” he said.

Cersei tried to wriggle her arm free but his grip was strong and he just pulled her closer. He could see the struggle in her; his sister was a prideful creature, and she could not bear to say the words out loud. They’d taste like defeat, and she had so desperately wished to win with her own strength.

“Help me,” she murmured. “Help me, Jaime.”

_I need you now like I have never needed you before_ , he remembered her words clearly now. He was about to break another vow, one he’d made to himself, but at least it was for love.

He pulled her into him and kissed her.

 

*

 

Addam waited, as the handmaiden announced his arrival. When he was given permission to entry, he did. Jaime was standing before the hearth, in winter clothes. On the bed was a black wool cloak. His bedchambers had not changed much from the time they’d spent together. Except he remembered it larger, until he realized it was the two of them who were smaller.

“You have what I asked?” Jaime asked, fastening the last clasps of his leather jacket on the front.

Addam moved his own red cloak and showed him. In his right hand was Jaime’s sword. He’d fetched it from the sept, where it had remained ever since the false corpse had been uncovered. The man looked at it and nodded, grateful. Addam watched him move about the room, then assisted silently as his friend covered the stump with his golden hand.

“You might want to leave that here,” Addam said. “A man with a golden hand will rise suspicions.”

Jaime paused, then nodded in agreement. He dropped the golden hand into the fire, knowing fully well it would not melt. Addam watched the flames lick the gold. Wherever his friend was going, he had no need for a golden hand. He was suddenly aware of the weight of the sword, too heavy for Jaime’s left hand: they had trained together, he knew it would be of little to no use to him now. But he gave it to him all the same. Jaime seemed to have the same thought, and let out a small laugh before clasping it to his waist.

“There’s a boat waiting in Lannisport,” Addam added.

“You can come with us.”

“I stand with the Rock.”

Perhaps he’d been too quick with such a reply, and Jaime tilted his head at him. Surely he thought him mad, to stand and fight a battle doomed from the start. Addam thought perhaps it would not come to that: but as soon as it was clear the Queen was not in the castle, there would be nothing to stop their enemies from setting the castle aflame. He wanted to prevent that, or perish in the attempt. That was what his father would have wanted.

“As you wish,” Jaime said, giving no sign of remorse. If he had truly cared about the Rock, he would not have joined the Kingsguard. He had renounced the place once, he would renounce it forever: twice, for the sake of the same woman.

_He is saving his princess_.

“There’s one last thing I need from you,” Jaime interrupted his train of thoughts. He was putting on the winter cloak: he looked like a King. “What happened to Tommen? You wouldn’t say earlier.”

Addam held his friend’s stare; he could not hope to forget that.

“We were leaving King’s Landing,” he began. “Your sister poisoned him. She said she’d looked into the dragon’s eyes, and all she’d seen was horror.”

With all of Jaime’s poise, Addam noticed the quiver of his lips. He knew Cersei’s one true act of cruelty was dressed as an act of mercy, and Addam had not known how to judge her for the longest time.

“Thank you, my friend,” Jaime said, placing the one hand on his shoulder. “And farewell.” He pushed past him without one last glance. Addam looked out the window: in the darkness of the night, he could see the fires in the distance: the army was getting closer.

 

*

 

Back when they were children, Cersei had thought she’d known the Rock’s every secret passage like the palm of her own hand. It seemed, though, she was not quite right. Below the Rock was a network of tunnels and steep passages she had never quite walked through. Those passages, according to Addam Marbrand, would lead them to the beaches of Lannisport; they would then have to walk some more to reach the harbor, but if they were quick enough they could avoid capture. Part of her still felt uncomfortable leaving the castle, but Jaime had been convincing: “Protect your rule,” he had said. “No dead woman can rule.”

So she had agreed, ridden herself of her emerald gown a donned a plain black that would help her go unnoticed. She’d put on a coat too, and lowered a hood over her head, so her blonde hair wouldn’t give away her heritage. Jaime walked ahead of her, with a torch held high to show them the way. Cersei wondered what those tunnels were for: perhaps to the ancient Lords could smuggle people in and out. Her grandfather’s lover, for example, the one who’d been paraded all across Lannisport the same way she had in King’s Landing. Did that woman use these tunnels?

Jaime had not said a word, ever since they’d left the castle. Darkness enveloped them, and Cersei was careful to step on steady ground. She followed Jaime’s torch. Between them, the silence hung heavy.

Cersei thought of Lancel, briefly. Of course Jaime would not understand: he had been captive for so long, and she had been alone for so long. Lancel had reminded him of her brother, somehow, and she longed to have him by her side. So she had taken him to bed and closed her eyes, taking advantage of the boy’s desire to _be_ like Jaime. It had not been good, it had never been good with anyone else, but it had served its purpose: she could pretend it was Jaime, at night. She could deceive herself so well. And Jaime… How could Jaime know? Could Lancel have told him? Or her uncle Kevan? It didn’t matter, as they could not pay for their actions: they were long gone, the both of them.

She put her foot on a particularly slippery stone and almost fell when Jaime grabbed her.

In the distance, they could see the feeble moonlight reflecting on the stone: they were close to the end of the tunnel. Both kept walking, only this time Jaime held her hand and helped her walk, as the path had become more of a feat. Soon enough they found themselves in the mouth of a great cave that looked out on the deserted beaches of Lannisport.

What a spectacle, that was. Sand had been covered by a thick mantle of white snow. The moon reflected itself into the sea, shedding the brightest of lights. Cersei shivered, as the cold made its way into the cave and seeped through their clothes.

“Quick,” Jaime tried to usher her on.

Cersei looked around and smiled.

“Look around,” Cersei said, lifting her eyes to the roof of the cave. The moon beams played across the indented walls, making it look like precious glass. She recognized that place. They had been twelve years old, and happy still. Before Jaime left, they had a knack for finding the most secret spots so that they could keep at their games, those games Joanna had tried so hard to stop. That cave had saved them: that was where she had felt him inside her the first time. Now it seemed smaller than it had when they were children, and she realized how close it was to Lannisport: any sailor could have walked by and seen them. How reckless they had been. How reckless they still were.

The mountain had kept their secrets, and now they were leaving her to die.

“I need to stay,” Cersei said suddenly.

Jaime walked quickly up to her, he grabbed her hand and tried to drag her, but she resisted and this time there was no convincing her.

“You’re going to die if you stay,” Jaime said. There was a hint of pleading in his words. He desperately wanted to save her, but Cersei thought it was for the wrong reasons. He wanted to wipe his conscience clean.

“If I die, I’ll die a Lannister of Casterly Rock,” Cersei said. “I’ll die a Lannister and a Queen.” The mountain hummed around them in approval, or so she thought.

Jaime’s face was puzzled for a few seconds. Despair crossed his features the moment he realized he could not save her. Maybe he thought she’d lost his mind. She could not forgive him for not answering her cry for help, but she could not help feel sorry for him. He was born to save her, and she would not allow him to fulfill his life’s purpose, not when it defeated her own. At last she realized they were never supposed to walk a straight line together: they were going opposite ways, they wanted things that battled with each other. Throughout his life Jaime had wanted to be a knight and save her, whereas Cersei had wanted to be the Queen, and to save herself.

Only one of those two things could come true.

Jaime dropped to his knees. “If you die, let me die by your side.”

He buried his face into her abdomen, hugging her waist. She indulged in his worshipping, caressing the top of her head like their mother used to do. Cersei herself paused her thinking and closed her eyes, remembering what it felt like to be in his arms and feel safe. That could not help her now: nothing would save her.

She urged him up and kissed him hard, as the moonlight hid the creases in his skin and made him look a child again. Cersei thought perhaps she could shield herself for a moment, sink into him and forget that they were coming for her. In spite of the cold, her skin burned. His cold hands found their way to her thighs and left a path if ice as he discovered her again, as if it was the first time.

That night, as she felt him inside her, she loved him again. And maybe, he loved her too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaah, sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. Yes, I thought this would take less. I thought the whole of it would take less but I deeply underestimated life itself: turns out National Film School isn't at all compatible with hobbies, and when you're writing a movie and a tv show and many other things it is not really wise to add yet another work of fiction. But regardless of how long it'll take I am gonna finish this small beast because I am a stubborn cookie and I shall not accept defeat! Enjoy this chapter, I shall try my best getting the last chapter to you as quickly as possible, but it will not definitely be tomorrow, or next week. Give me time, but I will come through. It's a promise!


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